Truth be told, I'm writing this post because I'm bored. I'm sure I'm not alone in the boredom, so let's see what we can do to alleviate this.

We all have a favorite quest(quest line), be it in the Eastern Kingdoms or Northrend, in Kalimdor or Outland. So tell me about it. But not in a dry description, not in words as to why you like the quest. No no no, tell me about your favorite quest in the form of a short story about your character performing the quest. Try to capture the essence of why you most enjoyed that quest more than any others. If you feel the need to elaborate more on why you enjoy the quest, then by all means, add some explanation...after the story. I'll get us started.

Poldaran smiled as she began to ascend the stairs. She had learned much this night; had seen the true depth of human spirit, the courage and determination that was the life blood of the mortal races. People refusing to give in, not because they have hope that reinforcements are coming, nor because they have no hope of escape, but because it simply was not in their nature to yield.

These people were simple farmers, armed only with crude farm implements, but they refused to yield their homes to the never ending tide of the undead.

She had been sent here originally to check on the status of the village because the higher ups in Valiance Keep were worried about the lack of ore shipments from the mine. What she found was a town fighting heroically to save itself from the dead. She offered assistance to the town's leader, Gerald Green, but he instead asked that she look into the fate of the small garrison sent to investigate the mine. He had felt, and the small group of villagers with him agreed, that getting Valiance Keep the metal it needed to forge weapons for its own defense was the higher priority.

Poldaran was taken aback by their selflessness. She did as he asked and investigated the mine, finding out that it had been overrun by the dead and most of its men had been killed by plagued grain. She brought the news to the townsfolk, and they sent a couple men with her into the mine again to retrieve the last load of ore from the mine so it could be sent down the track to Valiance Keep.

Hilda Stoneforge, the Dwarven blacksmith in Valiance Keep, was as astonished by their actions as Poldaran had been. Wiping a tear from her eye, she had ordered the two men empty the cart. "We cannot let the civilians lose their lands if they're willing to fight for them. We might not have the troops to spare, but we can send them weapons," she said. She pointed at a couple racks of weapons she and the other smiths had finished. "These were earmarked for new recruits, but I'll be able to cover those with the ore that you've brought me. I'll have these men load up the cart and deliver the weapons to Gerald. You go let him know that they're on the way."

Poldaran wiped a tear from her eye as she remembered the look of gratitude on Gerald's face. "Farshire has a fighting chance now, Poldaran. That's all we could've asked for and you've made it possible." He thought for a moment. "All we need now is a rallying point. I'll have my men deliver the weapons to our town hall. Go and ring the town hall bell so any survivors know to rally there." A fiery determination shone in his eyes. "It's time to show the Scourge what we're made of."

Poldaran's slender fingers gently gripped the coarse rope of the town hall's bell and she pulled with all her might. The bell rang with a roaring echo. Despite the sound inside, she could hear one of Gerald's men, Gamlen, shouting outside. "To the town hall, everyone! We've brought you weapons! Arm yourselves and beat the Scourge back!" She rang the bell again and hurried downstairs.

There was no mistaking the look of gratitude on the faces of everyone rushing inside. Poldaran knew at that moment, that no matter what she had to do in this war, no matter what lines she might have to cross in order to fight her foes, no matter what destruction she had to sew upon the land, that this one night, she had done something good. It was all she could do not to cry.

"Scourge incoming!" someone shouted. Apparently the undead had also been drawn to the sound of the tolling bell.

Gerald Green held a spear high. "Come, friends, let us show them that they will not take our lands lightly!" Poldaran's hands burst into flames. "You mean to fight with us?" he asked her. The mage nodded, unsure whether she could keep her voice steady as she spoke. "Splendid! Let's make this a battle to remember!"

The fight lasted through the night. Thanks to the light mail and shields that the men and women of Farshire now wore, the worst injury sustained that night was little more than a flesh wound, though they held back more than four times their number in ghouls and zombies.

Poldaran sat upon the steps of the Town Hall, exhausted from the night's fighting. Gerald Green approached her. "Thanks once again for aiding us, Poldaran. The people of Farshire will always remember you."

Junkboxing wiped her brow as she ran back across the desolate wasteland. Looking up she noticed the floating islands on their twisting path through a sky alive with nether energy and bolts of lightning. Ever since she had come to Outland it had been nothing but demons, heat, and freaky skies. The months spent in Lower Blackrock Spire, picking junkboxes for her friend Aureliano had been better than this!

"At least with smelly orcs I didn't have to contend with half the crap you see out here!" She muttered.

She faded into the shadows as she worked her way up the path back to her latest employer, a goblin by the name of Razelcraz. She had heard of him from some passing adventurers, and the prospect of sneaking up behind Thrallmar to work with the notoriously unscrupulous green-skinned mercenary ignited the adrenaline in her roguish blood. The fact that he had a sense of humor helped offset the annoying voice she found all goblins possessed. "Outland Sucks!" was the first thing he had said to her, and the dwarf agreed. However, the gold and fel iron he gave her as a reward for finding some parts was good enough to take up her most recent task. Hopefully he believed her report.

Sneaking up behind him and bypassing his felhounds, which the enterprising goblin has apparently trained like pets, she stepped out of the shadows and said "Hey, Razelcraz, they're free."

"Whoa!" He said, "Give me a heart attack why don'tcha? Thanks for saving my peons... Now maybe I can get them to fix my shredder with those parts you found, earn some money and get out of Outland. I can't wait to be back in Booty Bay."

Junkboxing smiled to herself. The fact that his "peons" simply ran off after she freed them didn't lend much to their chances of getting away. But as Razelcraz tossed her some gold and some booze, she thought to herself that since they seem to be working for the Horde, she couldn't care less.

"So, what's next? No offense, but it's better for the Alliance if you get back to Booty Bay soon, too. Or you could always join us..."

"Ha! Fat chance!" He sneered, "Those old fogeys at Honor Hold don't care much for me. Besides, I have a perfectly good mine here, all to myself, as soon as I get the shredder going. Well, let's pop in the keys and see how it goes!" Foreman Razelcraz grinned and reached in her pocket. "Eh? That's odd... I have one new set of holes in my pocket, and no keys!" Looking down, he saw the smiling (maybe?) maw of one of his felhounds. As comprehension dawned on his green face, he turned back to Junkboxing. "Um... I might have another mission for you. I seem to have lost the keys. I keep a pack of felhounds to protect my camp. They don't do a very good job and they like to bite me a lot. They also like shiny things. I think this one felhound I have may have eaten my shredder keys. I'll pay you if you'll take my felhound on a walk. Kill some helboars and let him eat. He'll do his business. When he's done, see if you can't find the keys in his "leavings.""

Junkboxing looked from the grinning felhound to the goblin, and back again.

"Let me get this straight. You want me to walk your felhound, have it eat some demonic boars, ****, and look through it?"

(Note that part 2 has not been fully spellchecked, etc. yet. Also, I did take some, let's say, poetic license with some stuff.)

Edited, Jun 17th 2009 7:58am by ShadorVIII

Got a 404 error for both of those. Not sure what the issue is.

Fixed in quote above and also in my OP. I had put an extra / after the Chapter_04.htm and & the Chapter_05.htm, which is now removed. Linkage should work now.

Also, note that the pages do have links for Chapters 1-3 and 6-8 but these will just produce 404s as those chapters have not yet been finished and put up. Some events at the end of Chapter 5 (Desolace Part 2) will have more meaning after 1-3 are finished, though the story should be understandable as is.

Spazicus the gnome was a firey little mage and bald as the day he was born. He didn’t start out bald, but one day some barber shops opened up and he was finally able to get rid of that tall pointy cow-lick from the top of his head. The resulting chrome dome actually made him look shorter, if you can believe that, but he didn’t care. He could barbecue you from 40 yards and you wouldn’t even be able to close the gap before you were reduced to a smoldering pile of ash. So go ahead, call him short.

After performing deed after heroic deed, he found himself in a crystal fortress in eastern Northrend. He had spent several weeks performing tasks for a group of ice giants who call themselves “THE SONS OF HODIR!” They didn’t actually yell like that on purpose, but they were so big that everything they said to Spaz shook him to the bone. The Sons of Hodir didn’t really like Spazicus at first, but he had helped them out several times and they were starting to warm up to him. He had helped restore several valuable artifacts for them: a large helm, a large horn, and a very large spear. It was hard work, but it paid well.

One day, Spazicus was asked to perform another task for the giants.

“SPAZICUS, WE NEED TO ASK ANOTHER FAVOR OF YOU. YOU ARE TO GO OUT INTO THE ICE VALLEY AND SLAY ONE OF THE GIANT WILD WYRMS!”

Spazicus replied, “No problem, guys. I’ve killed tons of wyrms in my day. Did I tell you about the time a druid buddy and I two-manned the great dragon, Onyxia?”

“THAT IS OF NO CONSEQUENCE! WE WANT YOU TO PROVE YOUR METTLE BY RIDING ON THE DRAGON AND SLAYING IT WITH NOTHING OTHER THAN HODIR’S SPEAR!”

“Hey, that sounds great and all, but really, I can just run out there and toss a few spells from the ground…done!”

“NO! YOU MUST RIDE THE WYRM! IF YOU START TO LOSE YOUR GRIP, YOU MUST HOLD TIGHTER! IF HE SWIPES AT YOU WITH HIS LARGE SHARP CLAWS, YOU MUST DODGE IT! WHEN HE PUTS YOU IN HIS JAWS, YOU MUST OPEN THEM WIDE ENOUGH TO THRUST HODIR’S SPEAR DOWN ITS THROAT!”

“Well, I guess I could ride the wyrm. I have a slow fall spell that will keep me from going splat if I fall off. But do I really need to kill it with a spear? My melee skills aren’t the best you know. I haven’t even trained my polearm skill. Tell you what…I will ride the wyrm, tighten my grip, dodge the sharp claws, and open his mouth. When his mouth is wide open, I’ll toss a couple fireballs and maybe some arcane missiles down his throat! Bet it has never been done that way before. What do you say?”

“YOU MUST USE THE SPEAR. NO FIREBALLS. SERIOUSLY. I MEAN IT!”

“Have you seen that spear? It is literally the size of a football field. In case you haven’t noticed, I am a gnome. You honestly expect me to carry that thing?”

Cranque pulled his steel from yet another worgen, Duskwood was full of them these days. One more notch on his blade to convince the Nightwatch of his worthiness. He sneered at the thought that his ability was scrutinized so closely by the Nightwatch, they didn't seem to be the formidable fighting force that they claimed to be. Every so often their guts got scattered by something roaming this dismal land called Duskood. The area was as depressing as finding a chest in a cave, only to find it held mana potions. Gah, who needs mana! Helping the old man by the graveyard gather things to survive was the only redeeming factor of this land. At least helping him provided reason enough to stay here, otherwise Cranque would have jumped on a bird elsewhere.

Cranque pulled the note from his satchel as he trotted toward Darkshire. Strange, he couldn't make out the strange lettering on the parchment. The old man had said that he and the mayor were old friends, perhaps it was written in a secret code that they shared from boyhood. Whatever, Cranque thought as he strode into the town hall, the old man had supplies to last awhile, I guess the rotblossoms helped keep him regular, they smelled awful when Cranque handed them over to the old man.

"Hey mayor, got a note for you from that cool old man at the graveyard." The mayor didn't look up. Cranque heard a groan from the mayor as he muttered "I can't read it, take it to Sirra and don't bring it back!!"

Cranque was puzzled at the reluctance of the mayor as he approached the historian with the note. "Ah, the fifth letter today," Sirra said, "I wonder if it says the same as the others?" After a few moments of concentration, the historian looked up from his parchments. "Yes, the very same thing, bring this back to the mayor at once." Cranque was confused, "But the mayor said not to bring it back..." "Of course he did, now be a good little warrior and go shove this translation under his nose so he can't avoid it."

Cranque did as he was told, what else could he do? The mayor attempted to avert his eyes from the parchment, but Cranque would not let up. A resigned mayor finally read the note. "Blah, blah, blah, doom and gloom... blah, blah, blah, revenge is mine... blah, blah,blah, creator rage and so forth."

This puzzled Cranque even further, "What are you rambling about? Aren't you two old friends?" "Ok, the friends thing, notsomuch. The old kook sends a monster from time to time to wipe out the town. It's not so bad, but this is the fifth time today... I really hate it when you guys are levelling all at once like this. Why can't you all group up and turn this one in together?"

The mayor turned to the cryer. "OK, do the alarm thing again, I know everyone just sat down to dinner, but Stitches is on the warpath again." As the cryer ran out to the square yelling his warning, the mayor took one last look at Cranque and shook his head as he chastised him, "Alts.... why can't you just head to Stranglethorn a little early?"

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When written in Chinese, the word crisis is composed of two characters. One represents danger and the other represents opportunity.

His glowing blue eyes wide and his mouth turned up into a grin, Malithar cut his way through the Fleshwerks' spiked ghouls. He even laughed as he pushed through to the good Doctor Sabnok's cleaver and thread.

Darkrider Arly's high-pitched, raspy voice rang fresh in his mind as he carried Crusader Olakin's remains in his pack. "With the abduction of Crusader Olakin, the Argent Crusade's forces will have no commander in the final assault on the Fleshwerks. While one crusader is the same as any other to me, the argents won't see it that way," she said, rolling her eyes.

Stifling his mirth as he brought the remains, cleaver and thread together at the table, Malithar wondered idly what he'd do with an entire platoon of Argent Crusaders under command of his ghoul. As he finished the last stitches, preparing to re-animate the remains, suddenly a brilliant golden light blazed up around him. Once the afterglow faded, he was faced with a fully rejuvenated Olakin. Malithar's smile died as Olakin's blossomed.

"Thank you for your help, Malithar," the crusader said as he stepped down from the operating table. "Now come, let us deliver the killing blow to these Scourge!" With a hearty laugh the crusader swept out of the room, leaving Malithar alone inside.

He sighed heavily as he walked out of there, his face turning further down at each cheer from the battling Argent Crusaders outside as they hailed their "rescued" commander.

Despite the many battles won (and lost), and all her training and armor, Jaclyn felt nervous. She had encountered this foe many times before, and they both had felt the sting of death.

Polished and practiced, enchanted and elixired, she was still uneasy about the coming battle. What had he learned in her absence? What had she forgotten? Never underestimate how time and experience, passion and fervor, or droughts and blizzards can toughen an opponent, or weaken your own skills.

She rode along familiar roads and stopped one last time at the blacksmith to sharpen her sword. “It can never be sharp enough for you, can it, Jaclyn?” said Argus. “It doesn’t seem so” Jaclyn replied, with a friendly smile for her old friend. She had known Argus before she had ever heard of the Argent Dawn or the Argent Crusade, and now she was on the verge of becoming their Champion.

“I assume you are headed a bit southwest of here . . .” mused Argus. “You know me too well, Argus” she whispered. “In that case, these just arrived from Nagrand”. She saw the familiar glint of adamantite as he handed her the stone. “You are too kind” she said, and honed the edges razor sharp.

“Well, I’m off then . . .” she said nervously. Argus knew better than to offer clichés such as “good luck”, “godspeed” or even worse “break a leg”, so he just gave her a wink and a nod. Still it seemed to bolster her a bit.

Creeping slowly on foot through the forest, dispatching rats and snakes with a quick flick of her hand, she moved towards her destination. Guided mostly by memory (and smell), she inched ever closer towards her nemesis.

A clump of thick tree trunks and shrubs obscured her vision momentarily, and as she rounded the last of the them, her heart skipped a beat as she looked up and found herself face to face with her rival.

Quickly she regained her composure. “Hello, Hogger” she said sharply, unsheathing her sword.

Brushing green-blue bangs out of her eyes, the night elf sat back on her heels and admired her work. The large knapsack she usually carried was now lumpy and full to bursting, stuffed with everything soft she could find. She'd even used her spare clothes as cushioning for the five precious gryphon eggs: nothing was going to stop her from getting them back to Aerie Peak safe and sound.

With a grunt, she hefted the awkward load onto her back, checking her weapons as she did so and making sure that her pack didn't get in the way. There were still a few trolls left nearby, and she didn't want to be caught unarmed. Silently signaling the ghostlike cat beside her to move ahead and scout the way, she began the descent back down the temple.

The journey back to Aerie Peak was relatively uneventful, thanks to her saber's keen senses alerting her whenever danger passed nearby, and Izsera was soon climbing the ramp up the the gryphon roosts, eager to deliver the eggs to safety.

"Izsera! Wait!"

Recognizing the voice, she stifled a groan. There was no use trying to avoid him, though. Turning, she settled the pack carefully on the ground, and waited as the stout Draenei ambassador puffed up the ramp. He had to stop to catch his breath, and stood panting for a few moments before he could speak.

"So, did you find him? Where is he?"

She took a little more pleasure than she should have in describing the Wildhammer dwarf's demise in great and gruesome detail, and in watching the annoying man's naturally pale skin go even lighter. She wasn't happy about Featherbeard's death, far from it, but anything she could do to cause discomfort to this pompous ***...

Rualeth's face tentacles waved nervously, looking as if they wanted to latch on to something (maybe, she thought, they would eventually strangle him) and he let out a low moan. "But...but my audience will be delayed indefinitely!"

Of course, she thought, grimacing. He doesn't even care that the dwarf's dead, except that it makes his job a little harder.

Now the Draenei's eyes caught on her pack and he reached eagerly for it. "What's in there? Are those the--"

She scooped up the lump bundle before he could get to it. "Yes, these are the eggs that Featherbeard found, that I rescued, which," She glared at him, silver eyes narrow "I am now taking to deliver to the proper authorities."

Sigh. I was pretty tired last night, so I kind of doze-read your first story. You know, where your eyes pass over every word, but only some of them sink in and the rest just drive by like cars on the freeway? I'll have to go back now and re-read it.

However, before I do, I just wanted to say that "story numbar two" is Most Excellent!! You have the knack.

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"the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same way in any country." Hermann Goering, April 1946.

The sun was setting in Westfall, glorious shades of orange and crimson painting the western half of the sky. 11-year-old Velox had just finished his drills for the day when his father came out of the house, smiling his approval of the young man's swordmanship. He was strong and smart, and he would one day become a better duelist than even Magnus himself had been. They began the evening's final tasks of rounding up the herd, storing grain, and getting the farm locked down for the evening.

A soft rustle whispered on the wind, and both Velox and Magnus turned towards it. Far and wide, only farmland could be seen. Magnus drew the blade that was always by his side. He raised an eyebrow, and suddenly spun to strike the air.

The blade parried with another, and from the ether a man appeared before him. Clad in blackened leather and wearing a red bandana, the man backed away and a look of amusement appeared in his eyes.

Magnus frowned. "Edwin," he breathed.

The man offered a slight bow. "Magnus. Good to see you after so many years. Your farm is looking a little worse for the wear. No doubt thanks to the heavy hands of Stormwind stealing all that you have."

Velox looked from his father to the stranger. His father seemed to know this man, but Velox had never seen him before.

"Come to the point, Edwin," Magnus demanded. "Or leave me in peace."

"Very well," the stranger said. "I'm working on a little something for Stormwind. Payback. For all that they have taken from us. From you, and every man who lost his wife when Stormwind turned their backs on us and our families."

Magnus frowned.

The man continued. "We could use you. You're still the best I've seen with a blade. I know you have a nice little cache of weapons here. Join us, and we can show Stormwind not to turn its back on its people."

"I don't know what you're up to, Edwin," said Magnus. "But I'm no traitor. My loyalties are still to Stormwind. You can do whatever you want, but I'll have no part of it."

The man frowned. "You're making a mistake, Magnus," he said. His eyes were a mix of sadness and anger.

"There can be no mistake when I hold fast to my beliefs," Magnus said defiantly. "Please, leave in peace. I will not turn my back on Stormwind."

"No," said the man sadly. "I didn't think you would."

Velox found himself thrown to the ground, and suddenly the world was full of blazing metal. When his vision cleared, he saw his father battling no less than 10 men, all armed with daggers and wearing the same black armor as the intruder. Thorium struck mithril, and his father fought with grim determination. Already half the intruders lay bleeding on the ground, but his father was starting to show his 60 years. Three of the men slashed at his midsection, and his father parried, whirled, and struck two with a single swing - leaving his chest exposed just a fraction of a second.

Velox shouted a warning to his father, but it was too late. Suddenly his father froze, a startled cry escaping his lips as his sword dropped. Only then did Velox notice the large pearl-handled dagger buried in his father's chest. The leader of the men walked over to him and pulled the dagger he had thrown from Magnus's chest. Magnus dropped to his knees, looked at his son once more, and fell to the ground.

Velox leapt in a fury towards his father's assassin, but he was not match for him. The stranger struck him with the blunt end of his dagger, and Velox fell. Even as darkness began to claim him, he heard the murderer's voice clearly.

"I'm sorry kid, but this is business. Maybe someday you will understand."

Velox struggled to remember the man's voice. It burned into his mind, merging with the cry of his dying father into the sound of rage. Of death. Of vengeance. And then the world went black.

(20 years later)

Gryan Stoutmantle eyed the curious man with unease. He was strong, lean, and had scars on his arms and face, built like the seasoned fighters who returned to Stormwind from battles in Icecrown. Yet he was dressed in common leather gear and carried a crude sword and a dull mace. Despite his modest gear and quiet demeanor, the man had successfully traced the Defias hideout to a barn in Moonbrook. Stoutmantle was wary of assigning such a lowly adventurer his final task, but there was no one else to perform it.

"There is but one task left for you to complete," Stoutmantle told the stranger. "Edwin VanCleef must be assassinated. While it saddens me to condemn any man to a death sentence, it is for the greater good of the people of Westfall that VanCleef is laid to rest once and for all. Bring me the villain's head once the deed is done."

The stranger bowed slightly and ran off to complete the task. Stoutmantle wasn't sure if he'd ever see him again.

At the entrance to the Defias hideout, Velox discarded the lowly vestments he had procured throughout Westfall and donned the armor he had crafted from Northrend's titanium and saronite mines. His Titanium Destroyer glistened in the afternoon sun. After 20 years of training, fighting, and learning how to kill with honor, he was ready to avenge the death of his father. It would not be enough to gather a group and hunt the man. This he would do alone, with brutal malice, terrorizing Van Cleef's men before butchering the assassin himself.

...

"Lapdogs, all of you," barked Edwin VanCleef, fear eating into his soul.

The rogues appeared from thin air, and had a brief look at the imposing interloper before a whirlwind of steel slashed through all of them at once.

VanCleef stood in terror before the man in the dark armor. "Our cause is righteous! Can't you see that? Stormwind MUST pay for its treachery!"

The strange man said nothing, but removed his helm revealing a face from VanCleef's past. At that moment, VanCleef understood. And he knew that regardless of the cause, of the fortune he was prepared to offer the man, that his death was imminent.

"I knew this day would come," VanCleef said with a strange smile. "I should have killed you when I killed your father."

"You did," Velox said. "I ceased to be that boy that day. Now I am a machination of death. Of vengeance."

VanCleef's face twisted into an odd look of approval. He started to say something until a blade ran clean through his liver. Half a second later there was a jolt, and he was now looking sideways at his body. The last thing he saw was a blood-tinged blur of shining titanium, and then the world went dark.

...

Stoutmantle did not recognize the man who rode up to him. The man's undead mount made Stoutmantle reach for his weapon until he noticed the Alliance colors on the man's well-made armor. The man tossed him a blood-soaked bag.

"Here's your head," the man growled. "The Defias here are finished."

Suddenly it made sense to Stoutmantle. He reached for the shining mail armor and some coins to hand the man for his reward, but when he turned back to the stranger he was already halfway to the gryphon master.

Velox had all the reward he needed. At last his father could rest in peace.

LOL. Admit it, you've gone back and wiped the walls with him at some point too ;)

In all fairness, the dude built a cannon-loaded ironclad, amassed an army of goblins, pirates, and one very angry Tauren, and did it all right under the nose of Stormwind. I always felt he deserved better than master of a lowbie instance.

To look at him one might think that he was ancient and wicked, a forsaken thing akin to the evil Liches that had terrorized the world from the dark places of old. None of these things however told the real story of Unsho. He had been good once, a hero by most men’s standards. He had done much to stop the Scourges advances on Lordaeron before he too fell to the sway of undeath.

Now he was something…different. His magic had grown stronger, colder. He was one with absolute zero. Ice flowed not just in his withered veins but through the very fabric of his being. He was ice. He was death, by reduction, by shattering piercing frost, and unstoppable cold.

He was not sure why his thoughts fleeted past such things this day as he stood before the Demon General Makrazdon in Shadowmoon Valley. It was a great beast of a thing. A reptilian bodied mountain of corrupt twisted flesh inhabited by a cruel taskmaster from the nether. It wielded a great halberd made of fel metal and enchanted with demonic energy. A halberd Unsho desired to wrest from its dead hands…

Unsho did not have friends in the traditional sense. Others of the Horde found him unapproachable, and a bit unnerving, but those few who he could call associates had told him he was insane to try to defeat such a formidable demon on his own. He had heard such things before. A dry rasping sound escaped his parched lips, he was laughing again.

Uttering in a secret language he began to pull frost from the air around him and it coalesced into an elemental of pure water. Sending the elemental forward he channeled cold from the essence of existence and shot it from his hands in a devastating bolt hitting the demon right in the center of its broad chest.

The demon was hardly phased despite being chilled to a level that would stop a normal being in its tracks it roared defiance and began charging Unsho. Unsho had to move fast, the demon was closing the distance on him and if it got close it could cut Unsho in two with a single stroke of its massive halberd. While running Unsho made a gesture in the air before him and the fabric of reality was torn asunder like a curtain. Stepping through the hole in space Unsho appeared to blink forward many yards.

He turned and shot lances of ice from his fingers. His elemental was dead, demonic fire was raining down around him and burning his flesh through his shield of icy air. Makrazdon was upon him. With a shocking wrench a snap of cold shot through his body and he used it to summon another elemental. The halberd was descending towards him on an arc towards his head. In desperation he unleashed every ounce of frost he contained at once and a massive block of ice encased him. Inside he found the ice soothing. He had a moment to collect himself. He was one.

Outside the demons halberd crashed into the Ice Block unable to break through. Howling with rage the demon turned back to the newly spawned elemental who was pelting him with frost bolts of its own. Taking advantage of the distraction Unsho dispelled the ice block and once again blinked away to gain distance.

The demon was hurting badly now. It’s body was riddled with broken chunks of ice that melted away to be followed by streams of gushing green blood. The demon had destroyed the second elemental and was making one last attempt to reach Unsho but he had other plans for it. With a final bolt of frost Unsho stuck the beast directly in the face, a critical hit that caused an icy shard to enter the eye of the monster and pierce its brain. It fell with a great unceremonious thud before him.

Smoke rolled in foul smelling wisps from Unsho’s burned clothing. Chunks of his undead flesh were missing but it was always hard to tell how much of that was new or old. He reached down and picked up the halberd with both hands holding it above his head. He was laughing again.

Nice idea Pold. :) Enjoying the stories so far. While this was not my all time favorite quest of which there are to many mention. Soloing elites has always ranked high on my list of favorite things. :)

Edited, Jun 18th 2009 6:50pm by Shojindo

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An old silent pond... A frog jumps into the pond, splash! Silence again.

When Maka came to he was in Ironforge. He had no idea how he got here. 'No matter," he thought, 'I'll figure out that black out later.' Looking around Maka saw one of his guild mates. A fearsome DK who wanted help in hunting down and killing Kel'Thezud. As Maka mulled it over he had the haunting thought that he did this last week and that the beast hadn't died or maybe it was another dream.

Confused and still shaking off the stupor in which he awoke Maka agreed. After a short time Maka and Gon had assembled a worthy party to slay the foul necromancer. Luckily several of the party where near the lair of the beast and a had a warlock slave they used to summon the party from the far reaches of the world.

Heading into the depths of Naxxaramus the adventures fought many patchwork creations. In a small circular room after slaying a giant dog monster and his zombie chew toys an undead shade a rose amidst the chaos of battling some giant men and made for a priest standing in the back. Maka quickly thinking taunted it with a fearsome roar. After killing all the assorted beasts Maka noticed a shine on the shade's remains. 'At last I have found you,' he shouted to the others. Curious they asked what it was hoping to a man it was something for them. It wasn't. It was a simple curio one of the scourge had dropped. Maka had an arraignment with a man back in Dalaran and could combine the curio with a few cheap gems for great profit.

Some good stuff in this thread. FJ, I read yours earlier and came back to see if there were any additions to the thread. And I found myself reading yours again. So good.

Wordaen, Keeper of the Banstick wrote:

I am gonna create a special category in our wiki for you folks and add all your stories to it and link to this thread. . . .

edit - ok, I actually created the category now.

This is a really nice idea Word. And kudos to Poldaran. And to everyone who wrote a story, thank you!

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"the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same way in any country." Hermann Goering, April 1946.

Thanks Word! I have a really long FFXI one as well if anyone is really bored at work tommorow and used to play that game. (It's posted under my old FFXI handle that got nuked of 5k posts by the wrathful Kao but that is a tale for another time.) ;)